Ms Briefs
by fanfictionnette
Summary: There she was, genius, heiress, mother, business woman and, most excitingly, wife; Ms. Bulma Briefs. Hosting a major event for her company, raising her child, dealing with ex-lovers, she could do it all. Even with the weight of the years and the looming uncertainty of her relationship with a certain saiyan prince. [Post-Buu] An adaptation of Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.


**A/N: Hullo! This was my submission for The Princess and the Heiress Literature Challenge, inspired by the great british novel of the 20th century, Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf. Since she uses a technique known as stream of consciousness, trying to describe the thought process of the characters, and I have tried my best to apply the same style to this story, the narrative might seem a little dense, heavy, but please, bare with me. The story takes place between the Buu saga and the Battle of the Gods/Super timeline. That being said, I hope you all like it!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball Z, nor Mrs. Dalloway for that matter. The only thing I can claim is the crazy idea of mashing up the two.**

 **Ms. Briefs**

Of course she would do it. There was no time to wait for the technician and it wasn't something she couldn't do herself – there weren't many things she couldn't do anyways. No, Bulma Briefs told her mother over the rim of her steaming mug of coffee, she would fix the neon lighting on the ceiling panels herself. Her mother had a lot on her plate already, coordinating the delivery of the buffet and disposition of flowers and table cloths, chairs – things Bulma just doesn't have the patience to venture on at the moment. Not at six in the morning, anyways, even with the pick-me-up of the too small dose of caffeine (in her opinion).

She would fix the lighting first, she mused as she crossed the large parking lot on the back of the commercial Capsule Corp. building in swift strides, that would help gear up her mind for the day. And what a day she had ahead! It promised to be beautiful at least, she had thought hazed-minded upon waking up at dawn, glancing through half-lidded eyes over the expanse of the almost pristine white linens of the king-sized bed to the slowly blushing sky, its soft hues hesitating to touch her bare form, sprawled among the sheets as she was, ruffled and sore. Unexpectedly refreshing it was, the morning air, the sensations striking her after stretching and mewling like a strained cat and dragging herself through the french doors. The way it swept through her cropped cerulean strands just now as well, carrying the nostalgic feeling of rushing through the wind, the mighty engine of her best hover jet humming between her thighs as sweet adrenaline hummed through her veins the way only a summer breeze can. She remembered that day, the date lost to her obviously, Yamcha catching up to her easily, shaggy hair dragged over his back, asking if she was running from the cops... Or was it from the crooks? It doesn't matter. It was cheesy and she had laughed, he had always been embarrassingly cheesy on those days. He should be coming around soon, wasn't the season over, or supposed to be anyways? Huh, she never did care much about baseball – any sport to be honest; he might've mentioned it the last time they spoke over the phone, she couldn't be sure, he had called in the middle of an experiment to boast about some party he went to or other, she didn't know, he tended to rant a lot. She should probably call him some time, see how he was doing – Goku too for that matter, that oaf will wait until the world is about to end (again) before calling her. Typical!

Adding that to her huge to-do list, under things to do on her rare moments of leisure with a sigh she kept her pace, taking nonchalant notice of the cautious looks directed to the reinforced building just off to the R&D department. She nibbled on the corner of her lower lip. The expectancy, that moment of ominous silence that she shared with every employee, waiting for that sign of life that struck every morning at fifteen past six drove her steps to a slow halt, her blue eyes following theirs. It was a solemn moment and she stood in her overalls among the workers, as a commander among soldiers just waiting for the shout of victory to send them all home. The soft beatings of her heart rung in her head like an after-thought, oddly resembling the tick tock of a far away clock that ran on a continuous and that awaited strike just hung in another plane and she breathed deeply because she could already imagine what was coming and she hoped, she hoped for all that she was that it would – a deep rumble reverberated from the distance. The heiress blinked for one moment too long (not that any of the men around would dare point it out) and resumed her walk, a pep in her step and a suspicious tug on her lips.

"Back to work, guys!" She commanded with that in-born authority and the power that had just now returned to her being – he's still here –, all confident stride in passing. "We have a lot to do before the guests arrive!"

They did just as she told, then again, why wouldn't they? A playful huff escaped her lips, twisting them in their wake; what else would they be doing? What would he? Not helping her, god forbid! No, she was comforted that he was there – entertained, as short-lived as it would be. He'd be strutting after her in no time, she knew, demanding some unexpected repair or update, a flaw only he saw; she had no time for that today, uh uh, not at all. A lot to do today, starting with the repair of that lighting, she assessed, pushing open the double doors to the ball room in her usual whirlwind of movement. That'd keep her busy.

-x-

Everything is falling into place. Chichi was beyond herself with joy, firmly attached to her husband's side as she was, arm curled around his toned bicep like a vice. Gone were the days of grief, she thought delighted, pulling the tall warrior through the woods – they're going fishing! Her Goku had always loved fishing. And today was the perfect day for that; nice, as her husband remarked in that aloof manner of his, paying a little too much attention to a flock of birds chirping overhead. It was a pity they couldn't stay longer, packed as she was with things to do before Gohan arrives – cooking and cleaning and making sure everything was just perfect for the family lunch, she would have no less. But the weather was nice and she'd have some time with Goku, her child-sweetheart, the one man who- was pulling his arm back from her, filling her chest with an infuriated loss. She brought her hands towards that tinge of pain before throwing them down and balling them up in fists. Just where did he- oh. They had arrived at the stream, already. Cooling off instantaneously, she focused back on her man-child, undressing carelessly and excitedly by the river bed.

"Keep the trousers on, Goku!" She hollered at him, flustered at the thought of his naked body bared to her. It had been so long.

His only response was that cheeky smile, thrown casually over his shoulder, and her heart throbbed like a teenage girl's. She looked so older than him, normally felt so older than him but then he'd beam so candidly and she couldn't fight the blush that rose to her cheeks. Oh Goku, she chastised him half-heartedly as he submerged with a splash.

-x-

The sky had never been so distracting. So Bulma thought for the billionth time that morning, wrenching once again her cerulean eyes from the facetious light coming through the stainless glass wall, making itself known even in her peripheric view as if accusing, judging her. So did her laptop screen, in power-saving mode, its reflective surface mirroring her aged face. It was not obvious, beautiful as she was, careful as she was, but at the same time seemed to be screaming at her; soft lines at the corners of her eyes, sunken shadows around her mouth. There were simply no adventures in her life now and so the daring, reckless blue-eyed girl had to mature, to find another place in her world; it was natural, she told herself. She had work, she had a family, she needed to look after Trunks, she needed to deal with her grumpy, frisky husband – that drained all her energy already. A sigh blew past her glossy-apricot lips; she needs another cup of coffee, urged the heiress through the com line, stat. Eleven, the digital clock glared at her, she hadn't got much done yet – wasn't there a meeting at 11:30? Or did she cancel it?

"Ms. Briefs?" called her secretary through the inter-com in her politely contained tone. Yes, surely it had been cancelled. "What is it?" she replied absent-minded, if it had been cancelled it wouldn't be bugging her that much. "Mr. Pomp's assistant just confirmed his presence at the Gala tonight." Came her polished, thin voice again, her words taking a second to register in the chaos that were Bulma's thoughts. A shrilly "What?!" burst through the line, she was sure he wouldn't come, she just couldn't believe it. A moment was necessary for her to collect her scrambled thoughts, elated as she was, that exquisite feeling of accomplishment after a hard work recognized swelling within her with a power that flushed the clogging childhood nostalgia out of her system. Such a visit was the pinnacle of prestige for any company, a medal of worth that rang for decades and it would warrant for so many opportunities of growth for her and her enterprises, her name would be permanently indented in the annals of successful entrepreneurs. Her, genius extraordinaire, her, Bulma Briefs, her; "Ms. Briefs?" And again the young woman pierced through the fog of her reveries. "Ms. Briefs, are you there?"

"Yes, yes." she blinked back to the moment, straightening into the countenance of the assertive business woman. "Call the PR department for an amendment in my closing speech acknowledging his presence, then issue a warning for the head of security to reinforce the squad that will be containing the press, we can't risk any breaches with this guest." Inwardly, she was still feeling giddy. "Will do, Ms. Briefs." To think that she had been so worried before - she pressed the inter-com button as an after thought. "Oh, Kera, can you confirm for me if I have any appointments scheduled for 11:30?" This is just amazing, she had to tell someone and she knew just the one, if she had enough time perhaps she could slip out to share this wonderful moment with- "No appointments, Ms. Briefs, you said you had to pick up your son earlier today." Another pause, another drop in her stomach. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Trunks would be getting off earlier today, how could she forget it!

Lips parted in distress, a hand splayed on top of her desk for support, she looked up at all the documents she needed to file today. Then there would be more last-minute confirmation calls that would require adjustments, organization and operational issues that'd have to be addressed and promptly taken care off, and that is before her stylist gets there. God, why did the teacher had to release his class earlier today, why today of all days? It wasn't like she had time to spare on weekdays, that's precisely why she kept a strict regimented schedule, which allowed her to properly work and raise a child all on her own, but then this half-assed school... Her head whipped up with the force of the realization that struck her in the peek of her desperation, when her nerves had gotten the better of her and she was already prepared to go all-out on some poor employee. She was not a single mother, not anymore. She didn't necessarily have to take care of her son all on her own.

Swerving her high-chair around with fierce determination, faced with the unusually daunting large screen behind her, the heiress hailed the Gravity Room. She could do this. Their child was just as much his responsibility as hers and it was about time he owned to it publicly. That line of reasoning was brusquely and immediately cut off by conjured images of his past sacrifice, as if sliced through by a sharp blade in a blitz attack, and the remnant of the searing pain it ensued, as if some vital, unnamed part of her heart had just imploded and she had lost a large piece of herself in the process, hand held above her chest, mouth parted slightly. But this was different, she would not loose him this time, she insisted, stepping up to the confrontational stance Bulma always ended up in during her verbal spars with the arrogant prince; he was different.

He was shirtless, it was the first thing she noticed when his figure blinked to life on the monitor, of course he would be shirtless, and sweaty, and huffing, and approaching with the feline grace of a predator and a nasty scowl plastered on his face. It was hard to concentrate when her eyes were glued to those droplets that slid over slick muscles forged in the hardest bronze - "Spit it out, woman!" Demanded the prince in his brisk tones, scratching her eardrums like gravel and rubbing off coarsely on her like sandpaper. Her idyllic bubble was burst so quick it was like it never existed, her resolve presently restored when he finished with a "I don't have time for your trifles."

"Trifles?!" Was her screeched response, blinded in outrage. That jerk! What she did was far more important – Trunks, she couldn't get off track, this was about Trunks, their son, she reminded herself with a deep, (supposedly) calming breath. She could do this. Fingers braced on her hips, Bulma pursed her lips, her squinty-eyed expression taking on a haughty note. The bastard enjoyed her distress, she could tell, as subtle as it was, the faint quirk of lips, the devious glint in those dark eyes. The bane of her existence, as he himself had called her once. As if! Enshrouded in a self-serving autocratic aura so familiar to her, the heiress deadpanned, "I need you to pick up Trunks from school."

"What?" He dragged the question out, his face twisted in incredulous exasperation. Hm, that was not a good sign, mused her. Then his eyes widened almost comically. "The boy can fly!" She had to roll her eyes at that, it was just beside the point. Of course, that ticked him off, and he just had to add rather proudly, "Hell, the brat could blow up a planet if he wanted." She was hit with flashes of the explosions and mayhem he himself had caused during the Babiddi incident, fire rising to her eyes at his implication; her boy would not! How dare he imply that? How dare he remind her of this! "Well, I don't care!" She shrieked feverishly, she'd had it with his unbending ways, there'd be no more justifying his mistakes, his absences. "I don't care how powerful he is, he is not a crude saiyan warrior, Vegeta." Nor did he have to be, not constantly. They didn't need that, she didn't need that. "He is a twelve-year-old boy and he needs the reassurance of his parents, BOTH his parents!"

"Tch." He disdained, facing away from her with a cross of his arms and a twitch in his right eye. Her flushed face fell, her swift anger faltering as the weight of defeat settled on her over cumbered shoulders. There, she had lost him. Again. In her mind's eye she saw his walls going up, shielding himself from her; it was disheartening, she needed his help. His support. Exhaustion was taking over her and it suddenly felt like she had been doing this for too long, like a soldier stuck in a loop, fated to fight the same battle over and over again without rest. She was done fighting this one, she was just too old; she was not the woman she used to be, concluded the heiress with downcast eyes. "Fine, if it'll shut you up I'll do it."

"What?" Rearing her head up Bulma croaked softly, she must have heard wrong, hallucinating maybe, and her lashes fluttered rapidly in befuddlement, eyes getting progressively wider with every parting of her lids in tentative hope. "You... you will?" A low growl was her answer, as he gave her his back, in apparent annoyance. "Is your hearing impaired already? I said I'd go get the brat, now leave." His scathing tones were lost on her though, such was the happiness of her triumph; someway – somehow – she had got through to him. Now that was an achievement, she was beyond herself with joy! "Great! He must be waiting already, there's just no way I could get to him in time with all-"

"What?" She was met again with his narrowing gaze, thrown over a stout shoulder; the ever-present crease between his brows deepened considerably. "Is he not normally released after noon?" Now that came as a surprise to her, drawing her fair eyebrows dangerously close to her hairline; she didn't expect him to know that. She wondered if maybe he was paying more attention to them than he let on. "Well, yeah." The heiress tilted her chin up with a dramatic roll of her bright-blue eyes, with the well-known poise of someone that detains important information. "For some reason, his _considerate_ teacher decided to let the kids off earlier today." He huffed and a playful smile wormed its way to her delicate face, softening her complexion. "Anyways, you better hurry before that child of yours decides to run off somewhere." Much like his father, she amended in her mind, fondly.

"Fine, whatever." He conceded with the semblance of a martyr, his attempt at indifference tainted by his grouchy posture, sounding somewhat defeated. Her prince was not pleased with this turn of events. Well, it wasn't like she was happy with this development either – Oh, who was she kidding, Bulma admitted to herself, closing off the call and throwing herself back into the fancy office chair behind her with a squeak and a self-satisfied grin; she was ecstatic. Perhaps she was not that old to her favourite type of adventure, she entertained; this woman still had some fight left in her, and with that thought she settled back into her many, many tasks.

-x-

Another glance to the window, another sigh. He was sighing a lot today, but he just couldn't help it. The day was beautiful and he was stuck inside. Vegeta was training, he must be training, and Goku merely watched Chichi rushing through the kitchen, mixing this, flipping that, cutting this, frying that and he had to admit that it smelled delicious, he'd give her that, but he was more bored than hungry at this point. It seemed to be another one of those wasted days, he thought dejectedly, chin buried in his folded arms resting atop the wooden dinner table.

His unusually listless eyes darted again to the open window, he sighed. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, he could feel every small bubble of ki, every forest animal, big and small, just pulsing with life, calling to him. They weren't strong enough, not to protect themselves. And even if Goku wanted he couldn't let himself go, he had to be there to protect them, his people, his family, his planet. He needed to get stronger, he needed to -

"Goku, could you give me a hand?" His wife's voice drew his attention back to her, the question registering as more of an order than an actual request, and even though he could only see the back of her head hunched over the stove as she was, he had the compulsive urge to scratch the back of his in a parody of guilt, before standing up swiftly and heading to her side. "Sure, whaddya need?"

"Taste this." Instructed her with the entrenched manners of a seasoned mother, shoving the food-loaded wooden spoon in his face as if feeding a stubborn child. There was no need really, the warrior was happy to eat anything she – or anyone – cooked without any coaching needed, and he wanted to be useful. Besides, it smelled great. Tasted great too. "It's so hard to make food for little Pan, all she ever wants to eat is meat, but that can't be healthy!" And she moved on to Gohan's eating habits and the bad influence of Boo and Satan on her innocent granddaughter, but her husband had stopped listening.

Licking his ever-hungry lips, he stared at her as she prattled on, as if he was a kid looking at a girl for the first time again. He had forgotten how beautiful Chichi was. The firm pinch of her lips, the fearful, bold aura that she gave off, the stern set of her eyes, framed by the two slips of raven hair in that fashion she seemed to enjoy so much, he had kinda missed that. And the food too, obviously. She was the best cook in the world. Although, now that he thought about it, there was something missing on that stew... He stuck his finger in the hot pot, eager to identify the missing ingredient and was promptly clucked in the head by a surprisingly strong hand. "I'll have none of that!"

"Sorry, Chi, I was just checking." He replied sheepishly, rubbing the sore spot on his head; he had forgotten how heavy her hand was. He wasn't sure if he missed that. She rolled her eyes at him, turning back to the kitchen cabinet, while scolding him in her usual loving manner. His eyes drifted back to the window, the hustling and bustling of Chichi moving through the kitchen becoming background noise, the lively sound of nature just beyond his window more important. He paid no heed when she left, muttering something about looking for spices in the garden, entranced as he was with the exciting cacophony outside. He felt claustrophobic all of a sudden, trapped like a wild sparrow in a cage, a mere ornament. He wasn't needed here. He couldn't help, he was no good here. He did no good here.

"Goku, what do you think about-" his wife stopped on her way into the small kitchen, basket dropping to the floor and the rest of her words caught in her throat as she watched Goku taking off through the opened window, bidding goodbye to her with an offhanded, carefree wave. Finally, he thought, wind coursing through his black spikes and filling him with a homely feel he got nowhere else, he was back on track.

-x-

It was good to be back, thought Yamcha with the satisfaction common to those in the peak of self-confidence as he chased the well known pavements lining the packed streets of West City's Central District. He had missed this, the bustling of movement, a variety of people passing by, some catching his eye – the city always had the Hottest chicks – and, he was flattered to notice, catching the sweet attention of others himself. Those he acknowledged, it'd be incredibly rude of him not to, although as a committed bloke, he couldn't give it much thought. They were not the reason he was here, he reminded, as the whimsically large but sympathetic domed structure came into view and a surge of bold happiness took over his chest. She'd be surprised to see him, he was sure.

The athletic player crossed the Compound's grounds with ease, assuring one or other guard that didn't know him already that he was expected, that yes, Ms. Briefs would see him, no matter the occasion. He imagined her excited reaction, amusement playing on his lips, how she would exclaim so loudly it would pierce his eardrums, her large, doe-like eyes would widen with joy and she'd throw herself into one of those tight hugs so particular to her, the expression of her favour, her, always so spontaneous, so full of energy and fierce independence, she would acknowledge just how much she relied on him. He cherished those hugs a lot, recalled him, taken by a moment so years passed, their anniversary, which managed to slip out of his mind every time, but not this time, no, this time he had been decided to prove his love, to surprise her, as hard as that was, her being perceptive as only a genius like her could. He did anyway, with a mix of expensive flowers – he didn't quite remember their names, only their price, he had wanted to give her the best – and dinner at the fanciest bistro in town, one the warrior knew to be her favourite. Boy, had that cost him some pretty penny. It had been all worth it, though, to see the capricious Ms. Briefs actually impressed, to have her praise him through the night, no bickering, no accusations or complaints of indecency, that night had been perfect, just as it should be. His reminiscent smile diminished as he approached the front law, that annoying prickle of energy going off in the corners of his mind like a faulty Christmas light. So he was still here.

Nothing had changed, he concluded, while sitting across from her at the round kitchen table. He had caught her in a break, perched at the edge of the pale yellow chair in an elegant poise, shrouded in the prism of sunlight coming through the window, her gaze turned pensively to it, delicate face in hand, coming to focus as soon as he crossed the threshold. She was the same, exotically beautiful, mug of coffee in one hand, figure accentuated by her posture, as a peacock that ruffles its feathers to entice, always such a tease. She still rationed her attentions, though, as glad as she was with his visit, one eye on him and the other on the garden through the window - "We're holding a big gala tonight, I don't even have time to breathe!" Apologized her dramatically. He wondered why her father couldn't be in charge of this, surely the old man still had it in him to ease her responsibilities a bit. She needed to relax and so he told her all about his recent experiences, not being able to help noticing how she seemed to zone out, her glance wandering to the large window. He had the weirdest sense of Deja-vu. Isn't that the spot where the capsule ship used to be? Boy, did that take him back, he scorned inwardly, yep, nothing had changed. He was about to fake a cough to break her out of her daze, when her mother swooped into the kitchen, apron and all, humming in the carefree manner common to her, drawing Bulma's attention in a flash. "Mum," she addressed the blonde, twisting in her chair to face her fully. "Do you know if Vegeta is home?" The tall player couldn't help the scowl that took over his features, it was good she didn't seem to notice.

"Don't know, honey – Oh, hullo Yamcha!" He composed his face, he had always respected the blonde, as ditzy as she was, and pulled his lips into a weak smile. "Hey, mrs. B." Bulma faced forward again, her eyes attached to the white table top and her mouth in a twist. "So you haven't seen him?" She insisted, interrupting – very rudely (in his opinion) - their interaction. "Oh, don't worry sweetie, he must have gone out to get his suit for tonight!" Yamcha couldn't believe the simplicity of her tone, as if what she suggested was the most natural thing in the world; the heiress, in turn, scoffed. "Yeah, right." Her reply baffled him even more, unable to understand how she could know this, know the uncaring nature of the saiyan, but stay with him anyways. She could do better, much, much better, but she just insisted on that guy, the beautiful, headstrong Bulma Briefs reduced to a condoning wife, catering to his every whim as no more of a servant girl; she was not made for that. His inconsiderate ways must be tearing her inside, it pissed him off to imagine, her petit body lying alone in the expansively wide bed every night, with no one there to comfort her.

She focused on him then, large, intelligent baby blues gleaming warmly at him in a swift change of which she was mistress and he felt every bit as the unsuspecting deer caught in the headlights by a skillful hunter, reaching up to run nervous fingers through his hair before remembering the pony-tail he was sporting, which made the soothing act impossible, and ending up fidgeting slightly in his chair. "You're more than welcome to come, Yamcha." A shaky chuckle erupted from his lips, was she meaning what he thought she did, he didn't know. Maybe she did realize that Vegeta could never really care for her, the guy didn't even work, for god sake! Butterflies frolicked wildly in his gut, against his consent, for he was engaged. And she was beautiful and they were going to get married soon and he wanted her to come, but the daunting vision of her solitary self in bed, amidst white covers, just craving for his company would forever haunt him, he was sure. His conjectures were interrupted by a boyishly gruff voice, "Hey, ma, hey Yamcha."

Her head swung so promptly to the door that Yamcha was disoriented for an instant, following the path of her gaze. "Trunks!" Exclaimed her standing up, fitting bizarrely in what he thought was the picture of a relieved mother. He was dumbfounded by her reaction and the lavender-haired boy's nonchalant expression, curtness of speech, and he could go as far as recognizing the ghost of a smirk. The spitting image of Vegeta; what kind of influence would the saiyan be having on the kid. "Hey, we won't have a lazy day today, mister, so you better go eat and then get started on your homework already." He had tossed his backpack on the counter and was preparing to leave again. He gave her an exasperated look, it bounced off of her like it was a speck alighting on a tall boulder. "The stylist is gonna be here at four with your suit, Trunks, there won't be time to do it after." The boy's little shoulders hunched forward despondently, while still the perfect picture of the apple lounging between wild grass under the shading of its tree; whining. "Do I really have to go, mom? There's never anything for me to do at those parties!" She shifted slightly, cocking one hip and bracing it in her slender fingers, her expression turning playful and yet breaching no discussion. "Of course, I can't be there without an escort now, can I?" All he could do was groan, the kid knew there was no dissuading her. "Convince your dad to come and I might let you off early." No, nothing had changed, not since the overbearing saiyan had crash-landed into their lives.

-x-

Curse that Woman, Vegeta repeated almost automatically in his mind, as if mimicking the annoying message of one of those pre-programmed answering machine devices. That one statement had crossed his head so often it felt completely noneffective now, saturated, as he tried once again to go through his training sequence. It was routine. Pushed carelessly to a corner of the reinforced-steel room, piled in a bundle and out of the way, sat the round, improved battle droids, intact but deactivated. His gaze wandered over to them as he spun to defend and kick, cursing once more softly under his breath as his focus was lost, only for a second. It was all it took, he groused, trying to resume his moves, a single moment to lose, something he could not afford (again). He hadn't moved past the warm-up series since he returned, sparring against the bots was out of the question when he could not concentrate properly.

It was pathetic. The Woman had ruined the process, interrupting him to whine about the boy and the things she had to do and what she wanted – no, needed – him to do. Always demanding more, he huffed, pausing in a straight-up punch as he felt her ki spike minutely, then rushing forward to elbow his imaginary opponent in the gut. He should have known it would disrupt his concentration.

He had been ready to turn her down quickly, used as the prince was to her passionate antics, her ravings, but no matter how many times he had done it, the blasted woman always brought something new to throw him off. He twirled and cut the stagnant, charged air with a roundhouse kick, landing on all fours, jaw unhinged with furious gasps, sweat dripping from his forehead and hitting the tiled-floor dully; her ki was off. From the moment she woke up, it was brimming low inside that weak body of hers, even for her standards, spiking erratically throughout the day. That in itself was distracting enough without her disrupting appearance. She had slept soundly last night, the bags under her eyes made no sense, nor did the weight of those blue orbs, drawn to the ground mid-fight, strangely disturbing. He needed to get that nonsense over with, so he complied; a strategical retreat.

A scowl settled over his stark features as he remembered the experience, such obnoxious humans, either stampeding over themselves to reach him as a herd searching shelter or prowling from a distance like vultures. He couldn't decide which was worse, both irking him to the core. How did the Woman deal with such morons and their absurd discourses, he wondered, "We didn't know little Trunks had a father!", as if the brat could have been conceived without a male progenitor, ridiculous! Tch. As if his father could have been anyone else. He wiped his face with a towel as a grimace twisted his face like ripples distorting the reflection on the surface of a glacial lake, the fool had tried. He saw in his mind's eye, their pulsing form against the dark backdrop, soft-plummed flux revolving shapely in its clear chalice next to a distastefully fizzling slop; bastard didn't know when to quit. As if he needed more hindrance to his training, wouldn't the pathetic excuse for a warrior leave already?!

The clown was obviously over staying his welcome, he had figured so the moment he alighted on Capsule's grounds, his wife's reverie crystally apparent to him. "Go tell your mother you're home.", ordered the saiyan prince in his harsh parlance, without glancing the still-landing half-saiyan's way; jaw set, frown in place, breaching no query. Bulma was fairly upset as is – he didn't know why yet -, the moron had to leave. Then he would be able to train in peace.

-x-

She needed a breather. Everything was in place, the ball room arranged in a subtly lavishing décor, the tables displaced elegantly about, the appetizers already being served as her illustrious guests piled into the room and, more importantly, the ceilings lights were working perfectly. Bulma supposed there'd be no problem to leave her folks to deal with the press for a while, just so she could gather her wits about her, having been strangely evading her throughout the day. Coming up to the hallway window dazedly – she had done it countless times, just what was so different today -, the heiress stared at herself through the glass, shimmering translucent among the cold stars. Her stylist was a genius in his own right, observed her, dragging her eyes up the flowing creamed-taffeta skirts that hugged her hips flatteringly, morphing into a tight, laced bodice embroidered with golden vines and flowery patterns, pushing her breasts up and narrowing into a loose sash draped over one shoulder, her eyes finally focusing on her porcelain face, framed by oceanic ringlets that cradled her head adoringly. She felt detached, her skin tight while at the same time not secured enough, as if it'd take only a gentle breeze for her to dissolve into lilac petals and flutter away in a whim through the glassy surface, her contours softly blurring at the edges, her reflection blending seamlessly with the nightly West City sky, this was it. Tonight she'd be the hostess, the heiress, as she had done before and would surely do again after. Was that it?

Bulma saw the lines of her face shifting, distorting into harsher, sharper angles, two fathomless black spots emerging from the blue depths of her mirrored eyes and she startled visibly; she knew those cheekbones, those unforgiving eyes overlaying her own delicate features. She spun around in a flurry, her eyes must be deceiving her, this couldn't be, and stared at Vegeta's form, he was standing so close to her she had to draw some inches back to take him in completely, he had snuck up on her so swiftly, she just balked astonished at the sight of him, there, able to do little more than rake her eyes over his figure. It was unprecedented, to see the prince clad in a slick, dark navy tuxedo, displaying his athletic build smoothly, the graphite tie highlighting the dark tones of his gaze; so unexpectedly dashing, having him and all the barbaric power he normally exuded like an expensive cologne contained in human attire, for her. It was one of the rare moments when Bulma found herself speechless, could he be doing this for her, she wondered, he stuck his hands in his pant pockets, staring her down in his typical impassive manner. "The blonde woman said there'd be food." He was; an unbelieving smile ghosting over her face, she knew, despite his brisk vocalization, she knew that he was there to support her, finally, her husband, he was here, with her, for her, she sauntered in his direction in pure wonderment, a feline grin taking over her face. "Looking handsome, where did you get the clothes?"

The coquette inside of her was flowing out of her naturally, coming to stand in front of her man, a delicate hand placed over a hard bicep, Bulma just couldn't wrap her head around the heady relief overpowering her, as she managed to find her balance with only this small touch; she wasn't a cheap romance character, unable to endure a night without her love, she was Bulma Briefs, her own person. But, she realized now, she had been swirling in circles, going over the same actions in a whirlpool of mediocrity and frivolity and she was absorbing all that up, it weighting more and more and fixing her to that same spot and she had been inwardly panicking and then he had been washed over to her, like a stray log, caught in the motion, and she clang to him for dear life, desperately, unconsciously, just so she could keep her head above the water, just so she wouldn't drown; reliable, sturdy and incredibly rough, but slowly being polished by the laps of the tide, still unbreakable, offering that much needed support.

He turned his head up and away from her, hiding a blush, she could tell, the tips of his ears flushing pink. "Your inane mother bought it for me." She wouldn't argue, knowing full well that this was not her mother's style and there was just no way she'd be able to guess his size, his proportions too unique to be pinpointed by sight alone – they needed to be felt, but she couldn't help raising one eyebrow bemusedly. "Oh? Well, my mother has an excellent taste." She would let him have this one, she had all that she needed, bringing her hands to the lapels of his jacket, fixing it absently and raising lively eyes to his impassive face. "As do I."

It felt awfully empowering to catch the prince off guard, his body going stiff for a moment as she had pulled him in for a passionate kiss, wishing to convey all her gratitude and faith in that one exhilarating smooch of lips, trying to imprint his taste in her memory as if keeper of this precious moment, his hand bracing her side by her hip, grabbing her face with another, quick to react, ready for her, always so attuned to her feelings, in his own alien way; her saiyan prince. "Mom, Granny is- Ew."

"Tch." The prince's mouth twisted to one side sourly before he wrenched himself from her quickly, crossing his arms in his usual defying stance, glancing away from the boy. How could he look so terribly endearing when acting like a petulant child she couldn't fathom, she just smiled contentedly at her son. "Now that I have my two strong men here to walk me," the heiress twined her arm with Vegeta's, pulling it free from its fold and stretching a hand to the lavender-haired demi-saiyan that still looked offendedly grossed out, flanking her slender form with theirs. "Don't think I'll be making a habit out of this." The prince protested gruffly and she continued without delay. "I am ready to face those vultures."

Her husband pulled his arm closer and they walked to the ballroom doors, as a joined force, ready to take on the world, she thought, being instantly flooded by the flashing light of the cameras as soon as they stepped in, "There she is!" hollered the throng of photographers, followed by Vegeta mumbling grumpily "I could just murder them all." She shushed him, elated by the moment, framed as they were by the tall, engraved archway of the double doors, this was her life, this was her, in that instant, as they were captured by the paparazzi, the Briefs family, a united front, tress-passing in that moment of apparent futility their own boundaries, peeking at what lied behind the great curtain, that essential connection. There she was, genius extraordinaire, heiress to the greatest fortune, beauty of the age, mother, business woman and, most excitingly, wife of a saiyan prince; Ms. Bulma Briefs.

 **A/N: So, tell me, did you like it? I believe I am moderately satisfied with this, although it could be better. A lot better. What did you think? Please, give me your feedback, I thrive on those!**

 **xxx**

 **fanfictionnete**


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